Around this time last year I wrote about not making any New Year’s resolutions. How it was, in fact, crazy that we became conditioned to make them at the gloomiest part of the year (I took the paywall off that post – you’re welcome to read it and share your own thoughts).
I still don’t make New Year’s resolutions – not in a traditional sense anyway. But what I usually end up doing is taking this time of the year to slow down (way, way down) and reflect.
It usually starts as not doing much of anything. Staying in, reading books, binging on a favourite show (again), eating comfort foods, letting my mind go blank.
Inevitably, given enough rest and blank space, the mind starts churning out thoughts and ideas and visions for the future that I want to have, and that’s when I start paying attention, maybe scribbling things down and making some pretty loose plans (they usually are along the lines of “more of this and less of that”).
(I must admit: It’s been hard to do it this year, what with wars and genocides and sewage in our seas and rivers stealing all my attention, and I’m trying to figure out how to find the balance in my own life – not turning away under the guise of self-care, but not getting swept away either; perhaps the next thing I’ll write will be on neurodivergent hyper-focus).
But back to my point…
When I mentor photographers and creatives, I often start by asking: “what is YOUR version of success?”. I do this because I know first hand how – quite often – we get caught into this perpetual pursuit of a dream that’s not even ours to begin with. We are made to believe there’s the “right” way to be successful and then there’s a “wrong way”.
In fact, the very word “success” has been co-opted to mean a certain level of financial success – when in fact it can be absolutely anything you want it to be. For you, success might mean a six figure salary and a busy calendar. For someone else, it might be living a slow life off the grid at one with nature. Both are valid.
And your goals? They change, too. Sometimes quite dramatically within a short period of time. It doesn’t mean you failed – it simply means you have realigned to your new realities and understandings of yourself and the world around you.
Especially off the back of the crazy pandemic years (and, ahem, wars and genocides) many of us have been massively altered in ways we couldn’t have predicted – whether it’s newly acquired health limitations, changes in family structure, realisation that you no longer wish to participate in the rat race to nowhere – or all of the above, and more.
So, as I’m giving myself some time to reflect, the question I keep coming back to is “what do I ACTUALLY want?”. Sometimes, it’s really hard to answer, and to be honest with myself, but I know that I’m not the same person I was five years ago – or even one year ago. A lot has changed in my life – and as a result, my “wants” have changed, too.
I thought I wanted a big house.
I now know I actually don’t. All that cleaning and upkeep – I won’t be able to cope! I realise now that I’m actually more content in a small home with less stuff in it, with all the right spaces to work, to rest, to retreat to, to comfortably hide away from the world.
I thought I wanted to be busy.
I now know that I actually don’t. Busy-ness is not a badge of honour. I want time to rest, to do nothing and stare at the trees, to think up ideas and make art. I want to wake up to the sound of birds and know I will not burn myself out (again). I want to be able to respond to “how’s business, busy?” with a smile and say “actually, no, not busy – just right”.
I thought I wanted to be thin.
I now know I actually don’t. I thought that thin means beautiful and successful but I was at my thinnest when I was at my sickest, and I don’t want to go back to that, ever. I want to be healthy, to have a strong body that can support things I want to do, and beyond that I am starting not to care what it actually looks like. I no longer subscribe to the unattainable standards of beauty imposed on women. I refuse to participate.
I thought I wanted to be popular.
I now know I actually don’t. I don’t want to hustle for attention, to be stuck in a vicious circle of being visible. I no longer want to self-sensor and perform because I’m trying to be liked by everyone. I want to touch people with my words and my art. Maybe make people think and feel beyond what they know, if I’m lucky. I want a community for sure – but my god people can be so exhausting. I want the luxury of being able to disappear into obscurity when I need to. I want to be able to be heard again when I have something to say.
I thought I wanted to be rich.
I now know I actually don’t. I want just enough to sustain me and my little family, enough to see me through illness and retirement, enough to travel slowly, to savour my favourite places and swim in the sea, and to climb the hills to see the stars. I don’t want the latest tech, I don’t need the coolest car. I want to live simply, calmly, gently, on my own terms.
Knowing all this, the question then becomes: how do I re-align my work to allow for that simplicity, that slower, intentional and purposeful existence?
For me, it looks like changing the balance between client work and mentoring, writing and working on creative projects. It looks like realistic financial goals that take into account my health and my neurodivergence (and consequent need for longer recovery times after busy periods) and my single parenthood, as well as my choice to unschool my child.
It looks like trusting my curiosity and intuition, knowing that it hasn’t lad me astray yet. It looks like buying even less stuff (but always, always more books – just not from Amazon) and generally more conscious consumption. It looks like caring for my body in ways I’ve not done before and not taking my health for granted. It looks like all this and more.